


Old Wounds (ILLUSTRATED)

by GayDemonicDisaster (scrapheapchallenge)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley has chronic pain, Crowley is Angry at God (Good Omens), Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26020900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster
Summary: Prompt by Snowfilly1: “Crowley was the one who injured Aziraphale’s leg, and at least one of them remembers it happening.”Aziraphale's knee is aching again in the cold weather. There are some truths to share. The truth is apt to be painful. Mild angst with comfort afterwards.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 282





	Old Wounds (ILLUSTRATED)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snowfilly1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/gifts).



> I've been practising drawing and decided to include another illustration. I'm happier about this one :) 
> 
> Crowley's identity in end notes with explanation.

Aziraphale’s knee was bothering him again. It did it sometimes, if the weather was cold. It always hurt when he visited up top of course, leading to a more or less constant unevenness of step when he had to visit celestial HQ. But this bitterly cold winter was really doing a number on him.  
  
He sat in front of an antiquated three bar electric fire and rubbed some wintergreen balm into the ache, lost in thought, before being jolted back to awareness as the bell above the shop door jangled and he heard the door slam shut again, not before an icy gust of wind swept across the bookshop, riffling loose pages as it went, and carrying with it the comforting scent of Crowley. 

Aziraphale hastily rolled his trouser leg down again before the demon could round the pillar and alight in the cosy little office corner of the shop and see, hoping the guilt in his features wouldn’t show. Even without the scent, he’d have known it was Crowley anyway, as the shop was closed and the door locked. It never stopped Crowley though, it never even occurred to him that the shop would be locked to him. 

“Bloody arctic out there,” the demon grumbled, stomping his feet and peeling his gloves off. He then espied the glow of the little 1950s electric heater and strode forward, lifting the back of a thick, warm, but nonetheless still effortlessly stylish black woolen coat, to toast his backside by the heat, placing himself between Aziraphale and the heater. 

“I hope you’ve had this thing safety checked, Angel. You’ve had it donkey's years, don’t want another fire starting up in here. Are those old cast iron radiators not doing the job then? I can threaten the boiler again for you if you want.”

Aziraphale leaned back and shook his head hurriedly. “No, no… it’s fine, I just fancied an extra little boost of warmth in this corner…” he thought quickly and hastily appended a good excuse on the end. “... I had a feeling you’d be popping round anyway and wanted to warm up the sofa for you, I know you feel the cold far more than me.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose with a distasteful look on his features. “What the devil is that stink?”

“Oh, wintergreen, had a load of old ladies in here earlier looking for antique knitting patterns, I’m sure it’ll dissipate soon.” The angel used the arm of the sofa to propel himself to his feet and made his way slowly to the kitchenette at the back of the shop, stepping behind Crowley’s field of vision so that he wouldn’t notice the limp, then discreetly snapping to miracle away the strong scent of the embrocation from himself. “Tea?”

“Definitely, thanks.” Crowley unwound his scarf and tossed it onto the sofa with his gloves, then shrugged off his coat to allow more of the radiant warmth to soothe his serpentine body. He wasn’t particularly quick at thinking or moving when he got this chilled, and the cold snap was the worst on record for several decades for the time of year. 

He heard the kettle flick off and the quietly domestic sounds of Aziraphale stirring two cups of tea in the kitchenette. Crowley rotated to allow the little fire to warm his front as well, removed his shades, and rubbed his hands in front of it a little before sinking back onto the sofa as Aziraphale shuffled through slowly, carrying a tray with two cups of tea and a little plate of home made cake, some plates, cake forks, knife, cake slice and a selection of likewise home-made biscuits. He set it all down carefully on the coffee table and nudged a cup toward Crowley, who took it gratefully, taking a sip, then accepting a small slice of lemon cake as well. 

“Defrosted yet then?” The angel asked, brightly, taking a seat by his desk and turning to face him. He miracled up a little ornate Edwardian era footstool that had been lurking in the flat upstairs, and lifted his feet onto it before leaning back and taking a sip of tea. 

“Yes thanks. It’s brass monkeys out there. Pretty much all I can tempt people into right now is unfashionable clothing choices. Everyone’s wrapped up in so many layers they look like the Michelin man.” He gulped more hot tea then his gaze alighted on the still open tube of pain killing rub on the end of the sofa. He raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. 

“Thought you said it was little old ladies lurking in your shop stinking the place up with sore joint remedies?”

Aziraphale looked shamefaced, there was no denying it now.

“Fine, it’s mine. My knee was a bit sore.”

“What? How is your knee sore? You’re an angel, you don’t get sick or hurt, just heal it up.”

“That’s mundane sickness or injury, Crowley. I can’t heal this one.”

Crowley was on his feet in an instant, eyes blazing with fury. “Did one of those fuckers come down and hurt you? Did that arsewipe Gabriel send Sandalphon to beat you up with some supernatural baseball bat or something? What did they do, Angel? Tell me!” He strode over to Aziraphale and knelt down, examining Aziraphale’s knees as if he could tell what was wrong through a layer of beige cotton trousers. “Who was it? What did they do to you?”

Aziraphale sighed in exasperation. _“Nothing,_ Crowley, don’t be so ridiculous, go and sit down, I’m fine. You don’t need to go all demonic on anybody on my behalf. It’s just an old injury, that’s all, it flares up when it gets really cold.”

“I don’t care when they did it, who was it? Tell me!”

“Crowley, settle down. It was thousands of years ago, honestly, it’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine, Angel. Someone hurt you and I need you to tell me _who.”_ The demon was grinding his teeth in anger. 

_“Don’t be_ **_ridiculous_ ** _, Crowley!”_ Aziraphale snapped suddenly. “It is really not important, now will you _please_ let the matter drop?” 

Crowley remained where he was, staring into his eyes, unblinking as ever, face dark and a low growl deep in his chest just on the edge of hearing. Aziraphale met his gaze back equally stubbornly. 

“If you won’t tell me then I swear to Satan I’ll go up there myself and go through the lot of them one by one until someone tells me who did this to you.” 

Aziraphale slammed his teacup down on the table and snapped back, at the end of his tether. 

“Don’t be so obdurate, you bull-headed, bloody-minded, intractable demon! You know fine well they’d destroy you the moment you set foot up there, now will you please sit down, shut up and never mention it again?”

Crowley stood, but didn’t retreat, unyielding as ever. “Are you telling me that if you found out that someone did something to hurt me that you wouldn’t feel the same? It wouldn’t bring out that old avenging angel part of you, make you want to go and smite whoever did it?”

Aziraphale gaped at him for a moment, lost for words. Crowley returned his gaze, implacable. “That’s not at all what I meant, Crowley. It is an entirely different matter altogether.”

“So what’s different about it? If someone hurt you why wouldn’t you tell me who it was?”

 ** _“Because it was_** ** _you!_** ** _”_** Aziraphale shouted out, and promptly burst into tears. 

Crowley actually rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, stunned. His own knees felt weak. He stepped back and groped, unseeing, for the arm of the sofa behind before collapsing back onto it. 

“...When?” He finally managed, in a hoarse whisper. 

Aziraphale looked up through reddened eyes in his tear-streaked face. “You wouldn’t remember. It was before.”

Crowley did not need to be told what ‘before’ meant. They did not talk about ‘before’. Crowley because he _didn’t_ remember, Aziraphale because he didn’t _want_ to remember. Before the fall. 

“You knew me? Before?” It was a revelation to Crowley. 

“Yes, briefly.” Aziraphale had fished out a handkerchief and blotted his eyes with it, then regarded the splashes of tea on his desk, one perilously close to a book resting there, and snapped the mess away distractedly. 

“Define ‘briefly’.” Crowley croaked. 

“You want me to tell you?”

“I asked.” Crowley replied, quietly.

“Very well.”

* * *

“I was a cherubim, before the wall assignment. Then a Principality. You know I was a warrior, flaming sword and all that.”  
  
“You always said you hated it.”

“And I did, because of what they made me do, because of this. Just because you’re created something doesn’t mean you have to let that define you, let it control your entire existence.”

Crowley nodded gloomily. “Ants emerge with wings, then the wings come off and they fall, doomed to scurry about under the earth for most of the rest of their lives.”

Aziraphale suddenly realised what a poor choice of words he had just used to a fallen angel. Nothing like rubbing a bit of salt in the wounds. Well, Crowley had asked for it, and falling was part of the tale. He continued. 

“The higher-ups knew about the rebellion brewing, there was distrust everywhere, they kept most of us confined to barracks lest we get polluted by ideology of the dissidents. Like mushrooms, kept us in the dark and fed us on shit, if you’ll pardon the expression. We were told all rebels were vile creatures working to bring about the end of everything. It’s only with a few thousand years of hindsight I can see that was a stretch of the truth - both sides want to destroy the universe, Heaven is just as bloodthirsty for it as Hell.”

Crowley nodded in agreement. He stood, stalked to the back room, returned with a whisky decanter and two cut crystal tumblers. He set them on the table, poured a generous measure in both, passed one to Aziraphale and took the other himself before sitting back again to listen once more. 

“They underestimated how far the rebellion had spread however. They still allowed us interaction with more trusted archangels. Especially as one in particular had a special role in rooting out wrongdoers and casting them out. Everyone feared him. He was created with the role of Vengeance of the Lord. To punish those who betrayed Heaven.”

Crowley felt an uneasy shiver down his spine. Maybe that was his subconscious showing fear for that archangel who presumably must have come for him too. 

“What was he like?”

Aziraphale paused, and a wistful smile spread across his lips. 

“Beautiful. He was beautiful.”

“Huh?”

“He spoke to me, he wasn’t terrifying like I’d been led to expect from the rumours. He was softly spoken, sweet and gentle. He asked hard questions of course, but he did it with care, he loved. He loved the other angels so much, and you could see when he spoke how much it hurt him to have to do his duty. He was so disappointed when he found more who must be cast out. It was hurting his heart.”

“I’m sure it was,” Crowley replied sarcastically. “Poor sod, smiting all those who dared ask questions, casting them down into Gehenna to burn for all eternity. Got all the sympathy for him, I do.” His expression was sour. Aziraphale ignored it. 

“It was. Because he was questioning himself. He was questioning the Almighty about why he had to do it. Why he must cast out so many from her grace. Demanding to know why what they thought was wrong. He did not want to be a tool of her destruction any more. He did not want his job, didn’t want to be the last thing every fallen angel saw as they fell from grace. Every one hurt him deeply.”

“Sounds like a dangerous way to think, if you ask me.” Crowley responded. 

“It was.”

Aziraphale took a sip of whisky, eyeing Crowley with interest. 

“He left me and continued his interrogations through the ranks. He had talked so openly with me, he said he liked that I didn’t judge him back for his thoughts and feelings like everyone else did. He embraced me before he left. I think he was the first real friend I ever made.”

Crowley’s expression soured further.

“A few days later I met him again. He was looking even more despondent than before. Falling was not all at once in one big event, it was pockets of resistance here and there. Lucifer and his immediate cronies had been first of course in the first big smiting, but others remained hidden, and the archangel had to root them out and send them down to follow their compatriots. The others continued to fall for some time afterwards - a little group here, one, two or a trio there, gradually fewer and fewer, but his work continued nonetheless. And he became more and more closed in. We’d meet, we’d talk. And we’d hug. Sometimes he’d cry.”

Aziraphale began to tear up a little himself again at this point. 

“Then I’d cry too. He told me not to, he kissed away my tears. Then, before we knew what was happening, we were just kissing, and holding, and being there for one another. I’d always be there to listen to him, to hold him when he needed it. I could see him struggling so hard, being broken down. He’d known Lucifer before, Lucifer had been the one to awaken him on the Lord’s orders in the first place, at the beginning. They’d been friends before the fall. Lucifer had even questioned the first task of vengeance he’d been asked to carry out. And the archangel had come to question himself over it. Was it right to destroy an angel altogether? He’d had to do it at the beginning, and it was eating away at him inside.”

“More questioning authority I see.” Crowley muttered. 

“Yes, and that’s when I knew he was in danger. I told him not to dwell on it, to put it from his mind, that it was for the best. We kissed, and he left, and I didn’t see him again for a little while, until the horns sounded. We surged out from the barracks, each one of us with our flaming sword. There’d been a pocket of insurrection found and we were required to go and do battle, to quell the uprising. So I went with my squadron.”

“Battlefields are awful places, bloody and terrifying. Not quite as loud as you’d expect them to be, sometimes, everyone is too busy trying not to die to waste breath screaming too much - just lots of very efficient slash and stab. It’s noisy, but not deafening. Then I found…” Aziraphale took a breath. “... Him. He was one of them. He’d gone too far. I stood over him, sword in hand, and the Metatron spake unto me as he did to all of us, told me to smite him. Or he was to be cast out and fall.”

“Delightfully ironic,” Crowley drawled, not having any sympathy for whichever arsehole had not only made other angels fall, but had kissed his angel as well. 

“Ironic, but far from delightful. He was already down, both hips broken, he’d taken out the other cherubim who had done it to him, but now he couldn’t move. I was supposed to strike the killing blow, but I couldn’t. I met his eyes, his beautiful eyes, and I couldn’t. He was unarmed by now. I hesitated and he asked me why. I told him it was because I loved him. I only just realised that’s what it was in that moment. But I knew I couldn’t love him, he was doomed to fall. I’d be killed myself if I showed any quarter, and he knew it. I knelt by him to kiss him again, I didn’t know what to do. He told me they’d make me fall as well for sparing him. Unless maybe I’d been overpowered. He looked at my sword. I gave it to him. He stabbed me in the knee so I couldn’t be said to have gone down without a fight.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open as understanding dawned. 

“Then you fell.” Aziraphale finished.

Crowley gaped.

“I was taken away later to get cleaned up, stitched and wait for the damage to heal - the flaming sword is a supernatural weapon of course so I couldn’t just miracle the injury away. But when I was healed, I wasn’t fit for active regular duty any more, I was made a reserve force instead - only to be brought out at the end of the world when it would be all hands on deck. I was demoted and sent down to Earth as a lowly guard position with three others, to guard one of the gates of eden.”

“I didn’t remember you…” Crowley whispered. 

“I know. I knew you wouldn’t - we were told your memories would be burned away along with your grace, no one should remember what it was like to be a being of love and light any more, it’s part of your curse.”

Crowley shifted uneasily on the sofa, his hips reminded him with a bone-deep ache of their own supernatural damage, an injury he never remembered how he’d received. He’d assumed they’d broken in the fall. Evidently he was wrong. They’d healed wrong. That’s why he’d been granted serpent. No hips to worry about. It was easier, less painful to slither about like that. To crawl around the pits of hell on his belly. He’d only taken a human-shaped form when he’d been sent up top for the first time. It hurt, but by that point he figured it was just normal to feel pain constantly, and had got used to it, more or less.

“What did you think, then? When I crawled up on the wall next to you?”

Azirpahale’s smile was pained. “I recognised you, and it was a shock. But I knew you wouldn’t remember. It hurt. I wanted to say something but didn’t know what. I thought I’d failed you by not talking you out of your questioning. I hadn’t persuaded you to drop it and be a good angel like they wanted you to be. I felt like it was my fault you’d fallen.”

“Oh Angel…”

“Well I did. Then I realised that if you didn’t remember, and I told you, that you’d hold it against me, that you’d want to hurt me in return for allowing you to continue on your foolish endeavour of questioning authority.”

“Aziraphale, I could never…” Then the angel’s previous words came to mind, and he looked up into Aziraphale’s blue eyes curiously.  
  
 _“Best not to speculate, really,”_ Said Crowley

“Quite - I tried a subtle reminder there on the wall. You were still asking questions. Never stopped.”

“So you didn’t get into trouble, for not killing me, up there?”

“No, someone else had seen you stab me in the knee before you fell, told the higher-ups that it wasn’t my fault. Thank goodness they didn’t see me give you my sword.”

“You have a habit of giving that bloody thing away, don’t you?”

“I never wanted it.”

“I can see why.”

Crowley regarded Aziraphale carefully. He poured himself off the sofa onto his knees, and shuffled over to Aziraphale on them, until he was kneeling at his side once more. He placed one gentle hand on Aziraphale’s knee and met his gaze.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Aziraphale.”

“I’m not. It’s a reminder, of how much you loved me. You didn’t want me to fall with you, so you stabbed me to show Heaven I hadn’t disobeyed, that I went down fighting the enemy.”

“Aziraphale, it isn’t ‘loved’, it’s ‘love.’ There’s no past tense about it.”

The angel placed his own hand over the demon’s. 

“I… I think I know that now. I think since you burned your own feet and rescued my books in a certain church I’ve known that. That you never really stopped. I just didn’t understand whether it’s fate that we found one another again, or if you were a gift to me, from Her. Perhaps she thought we shouldn’t be apart?”

“We shouldn’t. I don’t ever want to be apart from you again, Aziraphale.” Crowley leaned forward and kissed his knee, then his hand. Then Aziraphale’s hands were on his face, lifting him up as Aziraphale bent down, and their lips came together for the first time again in over 6,000 years. 

“I don’t want to be apart from you either, Crowley. Will you stay?”

“Forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> The archangel would be “Raguel”, yet again I’m drawing on a theory for Crowley’s previous identity from another Neil Gaiman short story - “Murder Mysteries” from the anthology “Smoke and Mirrors.” Raguel, the Vengeange of the Lord, was awoken by Lucifer in order to investigate the first ever murder - of another angel. He finds the perpetrator, who killed for love, and in turn destroys him, but is evidently left scarred by it. He sympathises with Lucifer, who is already asking questions, and asks questions of the Almighty himself, seeking understanding - you can see he’s upset by what he’s been asked to do. Tellingly, he also says “I never really fell”. 
> 
> In the story, Raguel also admires a phalanx of cherubim with flaming swords flying high above him over the city of Heaven, practising their manouvres. He thinks they’re beautiful. Maybe one was Aziraphale? In short, there are several Good Omens-ish references in the story that makes me think it isn’t coincidence.


End file.
